


Karkat: Be A Good Houseguest And Look After Your Ma―Friend.

by temporalDecay



Series: Friends Like These [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nook Eating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Eridan molts, Karkat's trying to be a good houseguest and help out.</p><p>Purely self-indulgent porn, set in the same universe as <em><a href="">Friends Like These</a></em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karkat: Be A Good Houseguest And Look After Your Ma―Friend.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizardlicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/gifts).



> This was originally a scene in a longer fic set in this universe, but due to pacing reasons needed to be removed. I cannot deal with hot porn being scrapped, so! Here you go.
> 
> Also dedicated to the awesome Lizardlicks, who draws the hottest things and enables me in horrible, awesome ways.

Watching pasta boil was one of the most tedious, boring things you’ve ever done. And you’ve been living with Eridan for the past half sweep, so you’ve seen him go about painstakingly classifying and reclassifying his wardrobe over and over again every time a new issue of _Trending Trolls_ comes out. So that’s saying something. Still, pasta is one of those things you’ve recently learned to master – and by master you mean you’ve somehow managed to prepare it three times in a row without setting something, including yourself, on fire and the taste of which you’ve yet to get sick of – under Agness’ dubious tutelage, so the novelty has yet to run out. And given Eridan’s current state, you figure a nice calorie bomb like pasta would do him good. 

You realize, as you start mixing up your sauce, that this is probably why Agness taught you, in the first place. 

You nod to yourself and shudder a little, because that girl is going to be terrifying one day, and the fact she’s almost goddamn nice about it doesn’t you feel any better. 

So there you are slowly but surely putting together a nice meal, pasta, sauce, fish – you miss meat, really, you miss it a lot, but Eridan’s hive doesn’t really get deliveries all that often and you’re not suicidal enough to go anywhere on your own for meat – and booze. Because you’re both adults now, officially and permanently, and nothing screams adulthood quite like poor choices made under the staggering influence of a metric shit ton of booze. And then the pheromones clinging to him hit you like a kick to the teeth, and you find yourself clutching the counter for a moment, before turning to find him by the doorway. 

Sweet fucking lord, were you this bad, back then? If so, you admire Eridan’s restrain and his ability to have a conversation with you, because right now your blood is boiling and your groin is tingling and fuck the pasta, really, you should turn off the burners now before you forget entirely and set the hive on fire. 

You lick your lips, fighting back the urge to bare your teeth, as you find him leaning against the doorway, clutching it with tiny, spidery fingers. He was smaller than you, before. Of course he was, he was a kid and you were an adult, fully molted and all. But now he will _always_ be small, all delicate features and lean, defined lines that make you want to wrap yourself around him and never, ever let him go. He’s still stronger than you – and of course he is, he’s seadweller strong – but the way he twitches and turns and looks at you, with wide, lust-glazed eyes makes you pity the stupid wreck of a moron far more than any sane troll would. 

You’ve seen this movie, you think, a tad hysterically, as you study the way your shirt just… slides down a shoulder, entirely too big and wide for someone so small and thin. And there’s the fact his skin’s flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He’s going to be so angry, you think, when he’s done being drunk on hormones and he’s back to his obnoxious, self-aggrandizing self. He’s going to be so, so mad, because he’s proud and arrogant and you love him terribly, honest, you do, but this is really not what he’d been wanting. He’s going to be so mad, really, but right now he’s not, he’s naked under your shirt and the sight of it is doing terribly wonderful things to your groin, setting it on slick, wet fire that nearly makes you sway. 

“Kar,” he says, in that soft, hoarse tone of his, and fuck him, really, fuck him really hard, for making your goddamn bloodpusher shake with pity at the stupid hesitation in his voice. “I—“ 

“I’m supposed to be making dinner,” you say, a little rough on the edges, as you reach out to grab him, and he reaches out to let you. When you unceremoniously shove him onto the counter, he spreads his legs wide, all on his own, your shirt riding up his hips. “I’m trying to be a good fucking guest, Eridan.” 

“Be my guest,” Eridan tries to laugh and it comes out as a moan, as he shoves his hips up, offering you the wet mess between his legs with no reservations whatsoever. “Seriously, Kar, I’m—“ 

He shrieks, one long, loud wail, when you shove your tongue against the moisture glittering along the opening of his nook. You don’t know why you did that, really, and you think you’re going to be ashamed of yourself forever, because that’s just… but the closer your nose is to his groin, the harder the cocktail of desperation and neediness takes over your veins, and by the time you’re shoving your tongue against the folds of skin at his entrance, you’ve entirely forgotten the train of thought. Eridan fucks himself on your mouth, hips rolling desperately against your face as his bulge writhes against your cheek, trying and failing to find somewhere to fit into. You congratulate yourself for having enough sense not to open your mouth for it, because even if your teeth aren’t as bad as they could be, you don’t think any of you is in any position of navigating them without fucking up. And really, there’s nothing quite like Eridan riding your face, clutching at your hair and the counter, making sounds that drill themselves up your own nook and somehow loop around the length of your bulge. 

You’re assaulted by the thought that you must absolutely not fuck this up, no matter what. 

You have enough sense to step back, when you feel him hit that note that’s all but been hard-coded into you as the telltale sign of an impending orgasm. Partly because there’s something gross about getting a facefull of slurry that doesn’t make you all that eager for an encore. Mostly because you’ve become quite fond of just watching him lose himself to it. He slumps against the counter when he’s done, legs dangling and violet leaving a fucking mess everywhere, because of course you didn’t think of a pail, you never really do. He gives you the goofiest attempt in Alternia’s fucking history of come-hither looks, eyes half lidded and face flushed, but mouth pulled into the dorkiest, most self-assured grin you’ve ever seen. An expression so purely Eridan it makes you reach out and grab his hips with your hands – your hands, which very damn nearly encircle his waist, and that shouldn’t turn you on, really, it shouldn’t, but it kinda does and right now, with the cloud of pheromones around your head, you refuse to think too hard about it – pulling him down and around, until he’s holding onto the counter for his dear life, standing up on his tiptoes with his back bowed, so his nook – swollen and wet and welcoming – is peeking between his legs. You fumble with your pants – why are you even bothering with clothes at this point? Past you is a sanctimonious twat, honestly – while he writhes wantonly, bulge still curling invitingly between his legs. 

“Shove it in, Kar,” he says, when you’ve taken too long to admire the scenery for his tastes, “sweet mother grub’s tits, do you need a fucking invitation? Just get on with—“ 

He shrieks again, when you do, pressing – forcing, it feels, ‘cause he’s small and you’re not, and it really shouldn’t turn you on, to hear him struggle, to watch his gut change shape at the right angle, so full of you, he looks like he’s gonna burst – your bulge past the lips of his nook, further and further into cool, slick _tightness_ that makes your head spin. You reckon there’s a note of pain, in his shrieking, whenever you fuck him, and you’d stop, you really would, but he threatens to claw out your eyes anytime you do. So you keep going, instead, until you’re hilted and your groin is flushed with his ass, admiring the way Eridan clutches the counter and arches his back, taking it all in. 

“God, you feel so good,” he babbles, among chirrs and clicks and soft, hissing noises you’d reckon other seadwellers might consider words. “So, so good, it feels you’re gonna break me, Kar.” 

You dig your claws into his hips, tensing, and then slowly slide your hands along the curve of his sides, until one’s holding him up, feeling his belly muscles twitch and struggle to hold you in, while the other reaches out to tangle with his bulge, giving it something to curl and squeeze against. Eridan makes soft, cooing noises as you hold him like that, his claws scratching the counter viciously and you just lose yourself into him. Your bulge tries and fails to lash inside him, rubbing against itself and the slick, muscled walls, and the fact it physically can’t is just too much for you to handle. 

Somewhere along the line, between fucking him until you can’t stand and giving into the pleasure literally making your vision swim, you end up on the floor, with Eridan still trying to hold onto the counter and your body smothering him down under your bulk. You can feel the remnants of his first orgasm crusting into your pants as you kneel and bury your face into the back of his neck. You think you might be crying, possibly. Eridan is definitely making noises that border on sobbing, breathing ragged as he tries his best to shove his hips back up against you, to keep up with the unforgiving roll of your hips and the unrelenting coiling up your bulge inside him. 

When it’s over – and you don’t remember it ending, a couple minutes lost to euphoria and white-hot pleasure that makes your pan trip all over itself in glee and hysteria – the floor is an absolute disgrace and Eridan is panting, cheek pressed against the side of the counter, hair sweaty and plastered down the side of his face. 

“How the fuck,” he asks, looking at you over the corner of his eye with the almost sated, smug look you’ve learned to feel proud of, “did you fucking deal with this shit on your own?” 

You grin wryly, chuckling, and pull him into your lap. He groans – you’re still inside him, relishing the last aftershocks of orgasm as you wrap your arms around his waist and ignore anything that isn’t him – but nuzzles your chest as he hooks his thighs over yours, boneless and content. 

“Creativity,” you say, mouth softening into a half smile. Your hands run soothing trails up and down his thighs, then up along his belly and his chest, because it makes him tremble and moan as your bulge folds itself back bit by bit. “It wasn’t so bad.” 

Eridan huffs somewhat, trying to laugh and not quite managing. He lets his head fall back against your shoulder. 

“This is better,” he announces, twitching his arms about until his hands find yours and your fingers are entwined together. “Way fucking better, holy shit.” 

“The absolute fucking best,” you agree, not thinking about your ruined attempts at cooking or the fucking clean up looming inevitably in the future. “It is us.” 

Eridan purrs in agreement, a broken, awkward sound and you start to think that maybe – just _maybe_ – it’s going to be alright, in the long run. 


End file.
